Walking into the dining room, he found Marilyn eating, the breakfast having already been laid out on the dining room table.
“Good morning,” Cash said, sitting down and pouring himself some coffee.
“Morning, sorry about last night. I guess I had too much to drink,” she apologized.
“Yes, I guess you did,” he remarked, not looking at her.
“I’m really sorry, Cash,” she repeated.
“What exactly happened last night?” he inquired, pouring cream into his coffee.
“What do you mean?” she asked nervously.
“You were all over the place,” he remarked, and very slowly lifted his gaze, locking her eyes. “You seemed very confused. Even now you still seem out of sorts. It’s almost as if you feel guilty about something.”
Marilyn had never before experienced the burning heat that instantly seared across her face. It didn’t help that she was hungover and her defenses weren’t functioning at their usually very high level. Marilyn had barriers that equaled the Great Chinese Wall.
“What? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. You tell me,” he challenged softly.
He held her astonished look for a moment, then shifted his gaze back to his breakfast and began to eat. The seed had been planted, but how long it take to germinate he had no idea?
She glanced across at him; at his hazel eyes and perfect, pale complexion that was striking against his thick, tousled black hair, his demeanor, his clothes, his whole way of being was completely unique, and now it appeared he was psychic as well. The discomfort became too much. She had to say something.
“You’re right, Cash, I am feeling guilty, I mean I was, last night, still am,” she stammered.
That didn’t take long, he mused. She has more of a conscience than I gave her credit for.
“And what is it that you feel so bad about?” he asked casually, continuing to eat his breakfast.
“Uh, stowing away on your bus, and uh, some other things.”
“Why don’t you tell me what those other things are?” he pressed. “I’m sure you’ll feel better.”
How the hell can I tell him I almost had him ambushed by reporters, and I was about to write a tell-all book about him? He’ll never speak to me again.
“I don’t think I can,” she whispered.
“I see. Would you like me to spank you? To punish you for your crimes, even the ones you don’t want to tell me about?”
Marilyn felt a strange tingling. Punished? Just the word made her feel weak, and caused an immediate birth of several hundred butterflies very low in her stomach.
“If you th-think it would, uh-”
“It’s not up to me,” he declared, drinking the last of his coffee. “It’s up to you. Yes, or no. I don’t have much time before I have to leave. What’s it to be?”
She felt hot, hotter than she’d ever felt before. Hot in her face, hot between her legs, her entire body was burning up.
God. I can’t believe I want this.
“Yes,” she announced, though her voice was breathless. “Yes, please.”
“All right, Marilyn, I will punish you. Please call room service and have them collect all this.”
“Okay” she replied nervously, “thank you.”
“I’ll be back in five minutes,” he promised.
Rising from the table he walked across and kissed her on the forehead, then headed to his bedroom, and just as he closed his door his cell phone jangled in his pocket.
“Jerry, thanks for calling. You know Hank will be joining you?”
“Yes, but why?” he asked. “I’m just discreetly videotaping this girl, right?”
“There’s a local there called Roy, big guy, prematurely balding, somewhere in his twenties I’d guess, bit of a beer belly. I’m sure you’ll hear people call him by name. If he starts any trouble I want Hank to discreetly intercede.”
“I’ll make sure of it,” Jerry replied.
While he was chatting with Jerry, the room service waiter arrived and piled all the breakfast dishes on a rolling cart. As Marilyn followed him to open the door, he paused, turning to her. “Everyone here says Cash Colt is a really neat guy. I haven’t met him, but could you please tell him that I absolutely love his music? His songs really talk to me.”
“Sure,” Marilyn replied offhandedly.
“Uh, thank you,” the young man said, embarrassed for having asked.
“You can tell me yourself,” Cash declared, walking in from his bedroom.
“Mr. Colt, this is such an honor. I hope you don’t mind,” the young man stammered.
Marilyn stepped back as Cash moved forward, astounded at Cash’s easy manner, and the warmth with which he instantly engaged the nervous waiter.
“Of course not, and call me Cash,” he smiled. “Your name is?”
“Barry, Barry Matthews.”
“Hi, Barry. I’m glad you enjoy my music.”
“Enjoy it?” Barry replied wide-eyed. “Honestly Mr., uh, Cash, I have every one of your CD’s and I think you’re brilliant.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Yes, Samantha,” he answered, a little confused.
“Do you think she’d like to see the show tonight?”
“What? Of course, she’d be absolutely thrilled, so would I?”
“Wait here,” Cash grinned, and walked back into his room.
Closing the door behind him, he opened his bag he pulled out an envelope. Four tickets and four backstage passes left. He held them like gold, giving them out to deserving people he met along the way. A young chap like Barry would never have been able to afford a ticket to one of his concerts, especially not the one in New York that night.
Pulling $200 out of his wallet, he stuffed the tickets, passes and money into a hotel envelope, and walking back into the living room, he could see Barry was still in shock at his pending good fortune. Marilyn had moved to a couch and was sitting down, thumbing through a magazine.
“In here are tickets, backstage passes, and a little extra for an early dinner and transportation to the show.”
“Cash, I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much. I’m absolutely blown away.”
“I hope you and Samantha have a good time,” Cash smiled, and stepping forward, opened the door for him, then closing it as the stunned young man rolled the cart away.
“What was all that about?” Marilyn asked dumbfounded.
“You don’t think a hardworking young guy should have something special drop into his life?” Cash frowned walking towards her.
“I guess. That was still really generous of you.”
“That kid, who probably earns minimum wage and is struggling to make ends meet, goes out and spends his hard-earned money on buying my CD’s. I think that’s more than deserving of a ticket to my show,” he declared. “I’ve been giving away tickets for years and I wish I could take credit for the idea, but it’s something I once saw my manager do, and I’ve just followed suit.”
“I should do more acts of kindness,” she murmured. “I just don’t think about it.”
“I think there are many things you don’t think about,” he said solemnly, sitting down next to her. “Now it’s time for me to do something for you. You’ll have a sore bottom when I’m done, but you’ll feel better.”
Gulping, she stared at his clear, determined, hazel eyes. He looked deadly serious, and a wave of goosebumps popped up on her skin.
“Have you changed your mind?” he asked quietly.
“No,” she whispered.
“Please go into your bedroom and bring me back your hairbrush.”
“My hairbrush?” she repeated.
“Yes, Marilyn,” he said patiently, seeing the flicker of fear cross her eyes, “and when you come back, I want you naked from the waist down.”
Nervously she rose from the sofa, walked into her bedroom, and rifling through her bag, fished out her hairbrush. It was large, oval and wooden, and for the first time she felt its weight.
Shit, what am I doing?
As reticent as she was, she felt compelled to pull off her new sweat pants and walk back to him, hairbrush in hand.
“Lay over my lap and bury your face in that cushion,” he directed, pointing to a loose pillow at the end of the couch. “I’m going to spank you hard. Apparently you did something very bad.”
“I did,” she nodded.
“Please, don’t keep me waiting. We don’t have much time.”
She handed him the brush and tremulously crawled across his lap, grabbing the cushion and hugging it to her chest. He began positioning her body, his strength surprising her, and when one of his legs lay itself over both of hers, she felt a chill of fear shudder through her loins.
“Are you ready?” he asked, smoothing the brush over her upturned rump.
“I guess,” she squeaked.
“Does that mean, yes?” he pressed.
“Yes, Cash. Please don’t spank me too hard.”
“Since you’ve apparently done something so terrible you don’t even want to tell me, I have to assume it’s worthy of a hard spanking. Is it or isn’t it?”
“It is,” she wailed.
“Then that’s how I’m going to spank you,” he warned, and before she could reply, he began slowly swatting her backside.
His practiced hand fell into an easy rhythm, landing the back of the brush across the breadth of her upturned posterior. There wasn’t much force behind the first smacks, he was warming her skin, preparing it for the sound spanking he needed to deliver. He would not make her cry, that honor would be left for whomever might follow in his footsteps, but by the time he had finished she would feel like the punished bad girl that she was.
I can’t believe you were going to write a book about me, he thought as his slapped the brush down. Ruin my reputation, have women’s groups up in arms. You really are a piece of work, aren’t you, Marilyn Sanders?
The thought gripped him and he increased the power behind his swats, pausing after each one, allowing her to feel the full affect.
When I think of what your nasty little scheme could have cost me, not just in dollars but in stress, and lawyers and…
He made it a point to never spank in anger, but she needed to be taught a lesson. As she squirmed and wriggled under the punishing hairbrush, he became determined that she would come clean and admit her wrongdoing.
“C-c-ash,” she wailed, breaking into his reverie. “That really hurts!”
“Punishment isn’t pleasant,” he replied sternly, “it’s supposed to hurt.”
The hairbrush kissed her with stinging heat as his speed and force accelerated, landing blow after blow, her cries muffled by the pillow.
“Ohhhh,” she howled. “Ooohhh, I’m so sorry.”
“Uh-huh, and you’ll tell me why very soon, won’t you, Marilyn?” he declared, and pausing the punishment, placed the hairbrush on the couch beside him.
“Ooooh, Cash,” she moaned.
“Won’t you?” he asked again, smacking down his hand with gusto, demanding an answer.
“Yes, I will, I will,” she exclaimed. “I promise…” but how can I? I want to, I do, but…
Before she could finish her thought, a finger slipped into her very wet pussy.
“My goodness, someone is very horny,” he teased.
She gyrated against him, pushing back. Her bottom was on fire but she was hungry, and his finger was a teasing appetizer.
“Cash,” she breathed, “fuck me, please, please fuck me.”
“Nope, you don’t get rewarded. This is punishment not pleasure,” he announced, but continued to finger her, eliciting moans of pleasure.
He intended to leave her bottom scorched and her pussy in need, and pressing his thumb against her swollen clit, he tickled and rubbed, bringing her ever closer to her glorious moment.
“Cash,” she breathed, “don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
But stop he did, and languidly moving his fingers from her sex to her burnt bottom, resumed the spanking. Burying her head in the cushion, she squirmed and squealed, and when he repeated the exercise, slithering his finger inside her ravenous cunt, she whimpered with need, then whined even louder when he pulled it out.
“One more round of spanking and you’re done, and I hope, Marilyn, you have learned your lesson, though I don’t believe your guilt will be fully assuaged until you confess all your sins, not just the ones that I already know about.”
Grabbing the hairbrush he went back to work, spanking her forcefully, swatting from cheek to cheek on the same spot, until her gyrations and cries told him it was time to stop. Dropping the hairbrush, he smoothed his hand across her crimson cheeks as he listened to her pant and moan.
“Why are you so afraid to tell me what your crime?” he asked softly.
“You’ll hate me,” she stammered.
“Hmmm, I doubt that. I may be ticked off but I doubt I’ll hate you, and I’ve punished you for it now, so I might as well know why.”
“Can I sit up?” she mumbled.
“Sure,” he replied, helping her off his lap.
Her face was bright red, and she curled up next to him, burying her head against his shoulder.
“I don’t have long before the car gets here,” he declared, checking his watch. “Come on, Marilyn, out with it.”
She sighed deeply, unsure where to start. Cash had completely swept her off her feet. The night she’d joined the partygoers backstage and followed them on to the bus felt like a lifetime ago, but it had just been a couple of days. She didn’t even feel like herself anymore.
“What’s your favorite thing to do?” he inquired.
“What do you mean?” she replied, wondering how on earth his question could be relevant.
“If you could do anything you wanted this afternoon, what would it be? Anything at all.”
“Exactly what I’m going to do, shop. I love to shop, especially here in New York, why?”
“Would you like to know what I would do?”
“Yes, I would,” she answered, still confused.
“Wander down to the barn, tack up my horse, and ride out into nothingness. I have a ranch in Texas and that’s what I love to do. Do you want to get married and have 17 children?”
“No,” she declared adamantly. “I most certainly do not. I’m not even sure I want any kids at all.”
“I do, not 17, but I definitely want to get married and raise a family on that ranch. I want to raise my kids how I was raised, working hard, baling hay, making pocket money by clearing out the cow shed or washing the tractor. Can you see yourself in a life like that?”
She shook her head, not even sure what to say, then sighed, finally understanding where the conversation was going.
“My grandaddy was a wildcatter who struck oil. I wanted for nothing growing up, just like you I’m sure. Food was always on the table, good clothes, great schools, but every penny I spent was a penny I earned, and let me guess, you have a trust fund. Am I right?”
“What’s wrong with that?” she asked defensively.
“Nothing, but we come from very different worlds. Marilyn, I may look urban, I may dress a certain way, but in my heart I’m a cowboy. When I’m on my ranch I do all the things cowboys do, and I hope that one day there’ll be a woman working right next to me, loving it as much as I do.”
She stared into his intense hazel eyes.
“We’re not right for each other,” she said quietly.
“No, we’re not, and you’re not a groupie, and you didn’t stow away on my bus so I’d spank you. Now I’d appreciate it if you would please tell me what’s really going on so I can focus on my show. I’m not going to hate you, and you’re not risking a long-term relationship with me because that’s not in the cards.”
“Okay,” she nodded. “I’d heard about your, uh, that you liked spanking, and I thought if I could spend some time with you I could learn about the famous Cash Colt and, uh, oh Lord,” she paused, “prepare yourself. I was planning to write a book. I already had a title, The Spanking Rockstar.”
She stared at him, waiting for his fury, a cold glare, a tirade of accusations, but she saw none of that, simply a nodding of his head.
“Thank you for telling me. See, the world didn’t come to an end.”
“You’re not mad?” she asked, shocked that he was so calm.
“Of course I am. It was a deceitful and conniving thing to do, and you deserved that spanking I just gave you,” he stated firmly.
“I know,” she moaned, dropping her head in her hands.
“Did you give any thought to the consequences of such a book? Not just for me, but for the people in my life, the people whose living depends upon my continued success?”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “That didn’t occur to me at all.”
Cash stood up and reached out his hand.
“Come here,” he growled.
She raised her hand, and taking it, he pulled her up and into his body.
“You need to get your act together,” he said sternly as he hugged her. “You’re gorgeous, but your head’s not screwed on right.”
“Won’t you help me?” she pleaded.
“Can’t do that,” he replied. “I can be your friend, and I can offer advice now and then, but your life is your life and you need to find your path.”
Stepping back she stared at him, her heart filled with something she didn’t recognize.
“I need to get ready,” he said firmly. “The car will be here any minute. I’ll see you after the show.”
“Okay.”
“And no pleasuring yourself. That’s part of your punishment.”
“Damn!” she exclaimed.
“Maybe we can talk about an authorized biography, but no promises, and it won’t be called The Spanking Rockstar,” he said casually.
“Really?”
“I said maybe,” he replied, “and one more thing, watch the booze. I don’t know how much you drank last night, but it was too much.”
He kissed her lightly then walked towards his room. Watching him stride away, running her hands over her stinging backside, she took a long deep breath.
Who are you Cash Colt? You should be a shrink or something.